


her beauty and the moonlight overthrew you

by janie_tangerine



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: (or we hope at least), (though less than usual), Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - The Witcher Fusion, Anal Fingering, BAMF Brienne of Tarth, Ballads, Bathing/Washing, Bottom Jaime Lannister, Cunnilingus, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, First Time, Friends to Lovers, Hair Braiding, I Don't Even Know, Idiots in Love, Inspired by The Witcher, Jaime Lannister Has Issues, Jaime Lannister Is Also Smitten With Brienne of Tarth, Light Bondage, Light Dom/sub, Massage, Music, Oral Sex, Past Abuse, Pegging, Porn with Feelings, Self-Esteem Issues, The Author Regrets Nothing, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Top Brienne of Tarth, Woman on Top, geralt!brienne, jaskier!jaime, past jaime/cersei just for everyone's peace of mind with the usual implications, this is officially out of control btw, what is this fic we just don't know, yennefer!catelyn in fuuutuuure chapters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-30
Updated: 2020-04-01
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:15:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23385826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/janie_tangerine/pseuds/janie_tangerine
Summary: Blue armor. Wolf medallion. Pale blonde hair. Blue eyes. Broken nose -By the time he’s made the connection, she’s out of the door, swords and all, nearing her horse and searching for something in her bag. Jaime runs out, and who cares if he hasn’t eaten shit in two days, he can’t let her leave.“Wait,” he says, “wait, you’re Brienne of Tarth, aren’t you -”“If,” she interrupts him, her voice suddenly turning cold, “the name Bitterbridge leaves your mouth, I’m leaving you to bleed out on the side of the road.”Jaime shuts his mouth at once.People do call her Slayer of Bitterbridge. The story everyone tells is that the local king had called her to get rid of a witch that was causing havoc in his land and that she had killed him, half of his court and half of the villagers.It was only a year ago or so.Looking at her, she doesn’t seem like a slayer at all.“I was about to say that I’m impressed, but do keep on assuming the worst of everyone.”Or: the Witcher fusion with Geralt!Brienne and Jaskier!Jaime you probably didn't know you needed but I'm providing anyway.
Relationships: Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth, probs future occasional cat/brienne/jaime but not for now
Comments: 58
Kudos: 142





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> ... so. The last week of the challenge I'm doing had in the prompts 'fantasy AU'. I thought about it for a moment, then I realized I HAD kind of wanted to write this specific fusion because if it wasn't obvious I've been fallen _badly_ into the witcher pit of doom ( ~~specifically the geralt/jaskier pit of doom~~ ) and I was like WELL LET'S SEE WHERE IT GOES.
> 
> Moral of the story: I started it, this was part one, I have part two and three finished and ready to edit and I have plans for at least four and five but I could probably go ahead a long time because this plot is speaking to me, sooooo... have at it. I DON'T EVEN KNOW BUT I'M HAVING A SHITLOAD OF FUN WITH THIS so hey why not XD 
> 
> Now, specifics (for now): since I can't be arsed to do worldbuilding from scratch, assume that this is basically witcher verse just with asoiaf characters instead except that I threw in some asoiaf places as if they existed there because it was going to work better (imvho XD), also I know I played fast and loose with monster lore witcher canon but give me some leeway I needed it xD Obviously Brienne is Geralt except... well I've been A BIT NICER TO THE POOR GIRL than show witcher canon is to her counterpart, Jaime is Jaskier except that he doesn't have to work that hard to convince his muse to let him write songs about her, this chapter is roughly based on ep. 2 of the show, the next one is going to be porn based on ep. 4 and the next is going to be just straight up porn because I said so and they'll be posted as soon as I can edit them properly. I'm still working on where to go next but 99% you're getting Yennefer!Catelyn with different premises at some other point because who am I to say no to occasional threesomes, and I'm considering the rest so idk guys have fun we'll see where it goes. I'm not putting a set count of chapters but I also plan to keep them all not related so no cliffhangers. ;) 
> 
> Other than that: I own neither canon, the title is from Leonard Cohen and I'll saunter vaguely downwards again.

1.

Jaime doesn’t notice _her_ until halfway into a set that is _not_ really going that well, not that he had any illusions about it - it was a bad song and certainly not his own best, and trying to disguise his current feelings concerning his sister, his father and most of his entire fucking family turning them into a dragging, _sad_ ballad with a plot that might have been entirely too complicated to follow was not his best idea either.

Then again, he was drunk when he wrote that piece of shit of a song, so he supposes that he’s asking for the rotten fruit.

 _Also_ , admittedly, the rotten fruit might be because he’s still too close to Lannister lands and everyone who knows who his father is would probably rather gut themselves than paying him for his playing. Fair enough, it’s not like he expected much less when he turned his back on his family and went out in the world deciding that he’d rather write songs about valiant knights - if they wouldn’t let him be one - than standing complicit while his father planned how to massacre his political opponents.

If he thinks he _could_ have had Arthur Dayne knight him, if only it hadn’t gone so _wrong_ -

Never mind _that_.

Point is: he’s given up on making _any_ money tonight when he notices the woman sitting in the corner of the tavern, a dark blue hood drawn over her head. Admittedly, he _could_ have mistaken her for a man because she’s definitely tall like one and _built_ like one, with large shoulders under the cloak and long, long legs clad in blue leather… _but_ no man that Jaime has ever known would go around with a cloak with little blue flowers embroidered on the hood.

Has to be a woman.

And he’s intrigued, and _she_ hasn’t certainly told him to fuck off or stop singing, so he puts on his best smile and sits down in front of her.

“My lady,” he says without preamble, “as the only customer in this place that hasn’t informed me that they would rather see me drop dead than sing some more, I was wondering if I might have an opinion on my performance?”

For a moment, he sees her go absolutely still, her large hand curling tighter around her ale.

Then Jaime notices the _two_ swords carefully placed against the wall.

Wait.

Leather armor, _two_ swords -

A moment later, the woman pushes down the hood very, very cautiously, and _holy fucking shit_ right, there’s no doubt that she’s a witcher. She has a pair of _astonishing_ wide blue eyes with slit black pupils that look like a cat’s that cannot be mistaken, and her hair is such a pale blonde it seems pretty much white as the sunlight hits on it, and the wolf silver medallion on her chest leaves no room for debate. And her face -

She flinches ever so slightly when someone sneers in their direction the moment she shows it. When Jaime’s stare moves from her damned gorgeous eyes, he takes in the full picture - she has an obviously thrice broken nose, full dark lips, and her cheeks are scattered in freckles, and her neck is most likely larger than _his own_ , and he had thought he was well-built. Then again, he’s _not_ a witcher, _she_ is, except that right now she doesn’t look at all _menacing_ as people whisper all witchers look as she sighs and places her elbows on the table.

She says nothing.

“My lady,” he winks, and at that she looks _surprised_ , “it’s not courteous to keep a man with bread in his pants waiting.”

She snorts, then -

“You sing well,” she replies, curtly, “but the music was a drag, the words were confusing and following the plot was impossible. And I’m not _lady_ ,” she scoffs.

“Honest,” he says. “Then again, the subject I was singing about was not exactly inspiring. And I would beg to disagree. You certainly are a _lady_ , unless you lack womanly parts, but that doesn’t seem like it to me.”

She glares at him. “ _What_ ,” she scoffs back, drinking more of that ale. Shit. Her muscles are _something_.

“That’s a lovely armor. It shows that you _do_ have breasts, and you definitely look like a woman, and I would like to presume I do know _some_ manners, when I care to use them.”

“No need to use them with _me_ ,” she sighs, and then stands up as if to move the moment the men on the side whispers something about wanting such a monstrous bitch out of their way.

Jaime is about to go tell them to shut up, he was _talking_ to her, goddamn it, except that -

Wait.

 _Blue_ armor. Wolf medallion. Pale blonde hair. _Blue_ eyes. Broken nose -

By the time he’s made the connection, she’s out of the door, swords and all, nearing her horse and searching for something in her bag. Jaime runs out, and who cares if he hasn’t eaten shit in two days, he can’t let her leave.

“Wait,” he says, “wait, you’re _Brienne of Tarth_ , aren’t you -”

“If,” she interrupts him, her voice suddenly turning cold, “the name _Bitterbridge_ leaves your mouth, I’m leaving you to bleed out on the side of the road.”

Jaime shuts his mouth at once.

People _do_ call her _Slayer of Bitterbridge_. The story _everyone_ tells is that the local king had called her to get rid of a witch that was causing havoc in his land and that she had killed him, half of his court and half of the villagers.

It was only a year ago or so.

Looking at her, she doesn’t seem like a _slayer_ at all.

“I was about to say that I’m _impressed_ , but do keep on assuming the worst of everyone.”

“That’s what usually keeps me alive, bard,” she says, shaking her head, and she sounds _sad_ as she says it.

She also seems _sad_ about it.

And she also looks like she wants to leave as soon as possible.

“Well, I’m still impressed. I didn’t know they made… _lady_ witchers.”

She shrugs. “Sometimes they do.” She offers nothing more but she _does_ look at him now and right, she’s slightly taller than him, but not _that_ much all things considered. “And I still do not know why you are _here_.”

“Maybe,” he says, “I’m tired of writing bad songs about my horrible relatives and instead I’m looking for a _real_ inspiration.”

He stares at her.

She stares back.

“And _I_ would be it,” she scoffs. “Ridiculous.”

“Hey, you _do_ slay monsters for a living, which makes excellent songs all of the time, and while your fame is certainly less than stellar, I’ve been talking to you for this long and you do not look like… _that thing you don’t want me to say_ to me. Maybe we can help each other.”

She keeps on staring at him.

“ _Help each other_.”

“You let me come with you, I write songs about your quests, you get better fame and _I_ actually can prove that I’m good at this job _and_ put my previous forgettable existence behind me.”

She keeps on _staring_ at him.

Then -

“The last time,” she says, “I bought into anything that came from a pretty face like yours, it was the last time _anyone_ thought I could not… be _this_. Excuse me if I think I will pass.”

Except that she sounds… sad, as she says it.

Then she climbs on her horse and starts riding out, blue cloak swirling behind her -

Ah, fuck this.

“I _am_ going to follow you,” he says, “I’m known to be fairly stubborn.”

She looks back down at him, still obviously not buying it, but then after some ten minutes, she does stop the horse and gets down from it. Jaime is maybe pretty sure she called him Renly.

 _Like Bitterbridge’s king_.

“Then if you’re _that_ good,” she says, “make me _believe_ that you mean it. I can smell lies on you, so don’t even try - the only reason why I haven’t gutted you is that I can’t smell _that_ or fear on you, as implausible as it bloody is, and it’s driving me insane because that’s all I smell on most people, so be quick about it. _Why_ should I let you come with? What’s in this for you? And _who are you_ , for that matter?”

They can _smell_ lies?

Gods, that’s such good material, _such_ -

Right. He thinks he owes her to tell the truth.

Also, no point in hiding it.

“I’m Jaime,” he says. “Well, _fine_ , that’d be Jaime _Lannister_ , but -”

“ _Lannister_ as in -” She starts, but he shakes his head.

“Yes, _well_ , not anymore. I mean, my illustrious father disinherited me after I made it exceedingly clear that I had no interest in following in his footsteps and least of all to take his place. Getting rid of my enemies through massacres is not exactly what I would enjoy doing in life. That is, not counting that affair I am sure you must be entirely aware of, as _everyone_ in the fucking continent is at this point.”

She stares back at him. “The… affair concerning _Aerys Targaryen_?”

He laughs. “What do _you_ know about it?”

“That you were supposed to be knighted and guard him when he was ruling Redania, and then your knighting somehow was postponed and it never came to be, and then you came back to your father’s castle and sent a raven to the entire realm saying that his… that his Queen had turned into a striga.”

Jaime blinks. “... That’s actually the way it went,” he says, “more or less. That’s… not the story most people know.”

“What,” Brienne says, and now he thinks that _maybe_ she’s smiling, a hint of it, “the one that _you_ bedded the queen and betrayed the king’s trust in you and were shamefully sent away because you weren’t worthy of a knighthood and that you made up what you wrote in that raven?”

“How the _hell_ do you know the real story?”

“ _Because_ ,” she says, “it was only a couple of years ago, just before - just before my trials.” She sighs, shakes her head. “And an envoy came _very_ quickly to Kaer Morhen and asked for a _good_ , discreet witcher to deal with it, and he went, saved her life and came back to tell it, and I assure you that Sandor is _not_ the kind of person who would embellish what happened on a contract. He told the truth but he also heard… the official version.”

Jaime snorts. “Do you think that they would have admitted openly that the king’s _sister_ and wife turned into a striga because he spent years raping her? _Please_. I - well. I stayed there a few months, I found out, I told, I thought they would hail me as some kind of hero and instead my reputation was forever slandered.” He shrugs. “So I thought that since I _did_ want to be in songs, _before_ , and as much as my father thought it was useless I _did_ get a musical education as every serious nobleman should, then why not making it my living? I mean, I wasn’t cut for _that_.”

“ _That_ ,” Brienne scoffs, “is blatantly obvious.”

“Well, _thank you_. So, going back to your questions. What’s in it for me? That I would have material for songs that’s not… about my fucking family or Aerys or the likes, and _you_ would gain more fame and more money out of them if they were successful, and you have absolutely nothing to lose by letting me come with you.”

Right.

He’s said his piece.

He stares at her, raising an eyebrow expectantly, and -

Her face suddenly goes… softer. Just a tiny bit, but it’s obvious in her damned eyes that it _is._

“You… want to write songs about _me_ ,” she replies, her voice suddenly lower. It’s a nice voice, he thinks.

“I thought I made that abundantly clear,” he says.

She shakes her head. “Go to Kaer Morhen then. It’s _full_ of men who would love to have you ride along. You don’t even _know me_ except as the thrice bloody slayer of Bitterbridge and I made peace with that.” Gods, now she sounds like she will _cry_ , for - “Thank you, I can feel you mean it, but it would be useless. _I_ am not anyone worth singing about.”

Thing is: she sounds like she _wishes_ she was.

And Jaime can hear that whatever happened in Bitterbridge was… not what _people_ think it did.

“Tell you what,” he says, “let’s compromise. You let me follow you for what, a week, so I can see if you’re really _not_ worth my effort. I’m not even going to write songs or anything until it’s over, and I swear I won’t get in the way of anything. And you can see that I’m not japing. If it doesn’t work out, it doesn’t. If not… well, it would be mutually beneficial, wouldn’t it?”

She stares at him for a long, long moment -

Then she bites down on her lip and nods -

“You don’t touch Renly. That is, the horse,” she adds.

“Wouldn’t dream of that, my lady,” Jaime grins.

Oh, he _is_ going to make sure she lets him go with her even after the next week. If anything, if he wasn’t intrigued before, he very much is _now_.

2.

It’s been six days and Jaime thinks his opinion concerning his fellow… non enhanced humans, so to speak, has _pummeled_ down to unheard depths. He had thought it couldn’t get worse after Aerys and _his damned family_ , but -

But he’s followed Brienne for _not even a week_ and as he promised he made himself scarce and didn’t write any songs nor tried to meddle in her business, just to see how she fared, and _Seven Hells_ but he couldn’t handle what she handles for five minutes. They’ve been across some four towns. In _all_ of them they’ve been refused a room to sleep in on account of _not wanting abominations in our humble establishment_ , he’s heard more people than he can count call her a freak to her back and within her hearing distance, he’s absolutely sure she’s been swindled out of at least a third of the money she should have been given and he knows _she_ knows it but she doesn’t do anything about it, and the worst thing is that she takes it… well. _He_ can see that it hurts her, because her eyes go _sad_ every time it happens, but for the rest she barely even shrugs and pretends she hasn’t heard.

And that would be enough, _but_ on top of that she takes some five jobs and - for two of them it happens that she doesn’t even _kill_ the monsters in question because it was obviously _not_ at fault and instead renegotiates the situation with them and she doesn’t even take payment for them because the commissioners were dirt poor, for another she doesn’t complain when the alderman refuses to re-negotiate her contract when she had killed what, a _nest_ of drowners rather than two, and the other four -

Well.

She got swindled out of money for them, too, but she had let Jaime tag along after he pointed out that he _was_ about to be knighted, he can fucking hold a sword and defend himself, except he hadn’t needed it because _she_ took care of the menaces in question swiftly, efficiently and quickly, and fucking grief but after he sees her take down a rabid werewolf that couldn’t possibly be saved or brought back to reason with a series of quick, well-placed blows, handling that sword like it’s part of her arm, he feels almost ashamed to realize that it got him so hard it _hurt_ , and good thing that he managed to handle it until they got to town -

And then it promptly stopped bothering him because she was refused a room and paid less than she should have had, _yet again_ , and so couldn’t even go wash in a proper tub.

The only good thing is that they’re not refused at least dinner and ale, but when they sit down to eat, Brienne’s armor covered in blood, same as her cheek (at least they let her wash her hands, small mercies), he’s _fuming_.

He’s about to address everything that’s wrong with her situation.

Then she speaks.

“I hope,” she says, “that you _did_ realize how there is nothing _romantic_ or worth singing about in my daily life.”

“What I realized,” Jaime retorts, “is that there are even more idiots in the world than I had once presumed, and I had presumed _a lot_. For - you’re saving their asses and that’s all you get?”

She shrugs. “If you think people treated me differently even _before_ I became what I am, you are sorely wrong.”

“... _What_?”

She looks at him like he’s just grown two heads. “Gods, if only I couldn’t smell on you that you _mean_ it -” She shakes her head. “Look, the eyes? That was the trials. The hair? I - I already was straw blonde, they just made it lighter, but fine, let’s say it was the trials. Enhanced senses? That also was the trials. But I was _tall_ before, I was good with a sword before, I was _built like a man_ before, my nose was broken before, my face was _ugly_ before, no man ever looked at me without sneering before, except my father, and -” She shakes her head. “I was called a freak and a monster long before I was put on this path. It’s nothing new at all.”

Jaime opens his mouth, closes it, then finishes his drink. “Well, then people were idiots before and are idiots now. You don’t deserve any of that shit and - fuck’s sake, you’ve done more knightly deeds in six days than _any_ anointed knight I’ve ever met in my entire life! They shouldn’t treat you like this. And I cannot believe they didn’t let you have a room.”

“I haven’t had one since Bitterbridge,” she shrugs. “I make do.”

Jaime is about to scream. “For - how old are you even?”

She _looks_ young, younger than him, but he knows that witchers age very slowly and live very long, so he could be mistaken.

She looks at him. “My father died when I was thirteen.” She shrugs. “Turns out I was a child surprise and he hoped it would be forgotten. It wasn’t. I passed my trials at seventeen. I’m nineteen now.”

 _She’s fucking younger than him_.

Jaime is going to lose his shit sooner rather than later - the part of him who wanted to be a knight and be courteous and kind to the ladies and help out people who needed it hasn’t died, after all, or so it seems, and while she certainly can handle herself… she probably _does_ need his help.

“Sorry,” he says, “but after hearing all of this if there is one thing I am sure of is that you are _in dire need_ of my services.”

“... _What_?”

“A good song goes a long way. And you desperately need someone to explain people that you’re nowhere near what they think you are, and I can’t - how are you even so - _how_ can you just shrug at all this?”

She smiles, sadly. “I told you,” she says, “nothing I had not experienced before. But it’s… kind of you to worry.” She says it like it’s a _novelty_. Fuck this noise.

“Then - just, _let me_ write those songs. Then if it doesn’t work it doesn’t, but… listen, you _know_ I wanted to - be a knight. Then it didn’t happen and all things considered I’m happy about it because _all_ knights I have ran into were a complete disappointment at best, but you - you are _so much better_ than all of them and apparently I’m still the kind of idiot who wants to do _something_ about this kind of thing.”

“You _did_ something with Aerys’s queen,” she says, not unkindly. “At the cost of your own reputation.”

“Yeah, well, it would be rather sad if it was my only accomplishment, right?”

“I -” Brienne starts, but she never gets to finish.

“ _Jaime Lannister_?” Someone almost shouts from their side.

Jaime sighs and turns to his right. Oh, fucking Seven Hells, _not_ Ronnet Connington - he’s run into the man a few times when he was vying to become his father’s bannerman after his own uncle was disinherited on account of not having disguised well enough that he was not carnally interested in women. He thinks he succeeded. He cannot be arsed to remember that.

“I do not,” he grits his teeth, not bothering to stand, “go by _that_ surname anymore, Ser, but yes. Can I help you?”

“Oh, I just saw you and was wondering about you - are you _really_ writing songs now?”

Jaime shrugs. “I’d rather try that than spend my time plotting my poor neighbors’s destruction.”

“And what would your father say if he saw that now you take company with _that_?”

Jaime really, _really_ doesn’t like where this conversation is heading.

“ _She_ ,” he replies, slowly, “is better company than about anyone in Casterly that’s not my brother and I am pretty sure he would agree with the sentiment, and we were having a drink in peace, so how about you… just leave us alone to have it?”

“Come on,” Connington goes on, “you can’t _mean_ it. How do you grow up with your sister and then even look at… _that_? And don’t you know witchers are just little more than beasts or are you just suicidal right now? I’m sure she’s hairer than most of the contracts she takes -”

Now.

Jaime was going to let is slide.

 _Brienne_ is mouthing at him to let it slide.

_But._

It’s not just that the moment he put _her_ and _beast_ in the same sentence Jaime had just seen deep, _bright_ red.

It’s not just that he had seen Brienne flinch _as usual_ , taking it in _again_ without protesting -

But -

 _How do you grow up with your sister and even look at_ that _-_

(Ronnet Connington never felt Cersei’s hands leave bruises on his wrists or arms, Ronnet Connington never heard Cersei whisper in his ear all the damned time that they were one and the same to the point that he felt bad when he didn’t want what _she_ wanted and couldn’t find it in himself to say no, Ronnet Connington didn’t have to plead her to leave Tyrion alone, Ronnet Connington surely never realized years later that maybe _not remembering_ a lot of times he _knows_ they had been together when they were young and where he _knows_ they kissed or better _that she kissed him and he let her_ , Ronnet Connington never was told that he was a useless burden when he threw away his place in court for the sake of poor Queen Rhaella who according to her was a monster that should have been put down -)

“You know,” Jaime says, standing up, not caring that Brienne is telling him not to, “she has a _name_. Which is _Brienne_ , if you fucking please, _Ser_ ,” and then he’s clenched his hand into a fist and punched the asshole so hard he spits a damned tooth.

He doesn’t even care when one of his friends punches back.

\--

“You didn’t have to do it,” Brienne says later, quietly, as they sit on the banks of a small river outside the damned town and dabs blood from his face, her large, rough hands surprisingly gentle as she wipes it away - they’re washing as best as they can and he _does_ have a split lip, but he cannot care less. For one, his lute has come out of that skirmish unharmed and that’s all he cares about, and even if it hadn’t, he wouldn’t have regretted it.

“Well, I wanted to,” he shrugs. “He was an asshole and - he had no right. And stop looking at me like I am completely insane.”

“I - I’m sorry,” she whispers, suddenly sounding her damned age, “it’s just… I told you, my father has always been the only man who ever… who _never_ told me that kind of thing. The few boys he tried to marry me to, back in the day, before he died and before it turned out that was not meant to be for _me_ , they all - told me similar things. And - in Bitterbridge, it’s a long story, but I did spend a lot of time with the king’s men, before… things went down. They actually tried to court me, the way I am now, and for a moment I thought they actually… saw a peer in me and they didn’t mind the way I was.”

“... They didn’t?”

She shakes her head. “It was a bet on my maidenhead. Because you know, a _woman_ who can hold a sword and looks like me, that’s absolutely a prize, but bragging about having taken a _witcher’s_ maidenhead?” She snorts a little, moving the cloth to his temple. Gods, she _really_ is gentle.

Meanwhile, _he_ is feeling sick.

“I found out,” she says quietly, “and I made clear to them that if any of them tried it again they wouldn’t have much… equipment to take anyone’s maidenhead anymore. That worked.”

He laughs, in spite of himself. “As you should have.”

“So -” She shrugs. “Men don’t usually… do _that_ on my account. Thank you,” she replies, so quietly it’s barely audible.

Jaime _could_ say a lot of things.

But he also never quite managed to be… very much straight, during this kind of conversation.

“Yeah, well,” he half-smiles, even if it hurts, “there are no men like me, _my lady_.”

She _stares_ at him, and then she actually _laughs_ , not a snort but a real one, not loud and not _too much_ , but she smiles enough to show a bit of crooked teeth and Jaime thinks he wants to see her smile more often and gods, he doesn’t know what the _fuck_ he’s just landed himself into, but he cannot give a single fuck.

“I think I understood that,” she says, and then, quieter, her cheeks maybe slightly flushing, those blue cat-like eyes staring up into his as if it’s taking all of her guts to say what comes next, “and - you can come with me, if you want.”

“Oh, _finally_ ,” he says, “you won’t regret it.”

“I don’t think so. But - gods. You should probably know about Bitterbridge.”

“You don’t _have_ to say it -”

“No, you should. Because if you don’t - you won’t understand. I think you have just begun to. But - all right.” She breathes in. “It was… one of my first contracts. Not _the_ first, and people knew of me by fame because, well. No _lady witchers_ around, as you would say. Also - Renly, the king, he had been on a campaign when he heard that a witch had enchanted his castle and taken his lands, and I was nearby, so he hired me to deal with her on the way back. I traveled with his army, which was… how that bet happened.” She sighs. “The closer we got to Bitterbridge, the more it was obvious things were _wrong_ \- men started snapping at each other and killing each other even within friends, and then it turned out that she actually was hiding within the camp, posing as a washerwoman, and when we got to Bitterbridge… before I could kill her - and I did - she cursed Renly and part of his army. To - kill everyone else he’d see. I put myself in the middle of it before it could get too bad and I only killed people in self defense, and then I fought him and I tried to make him reason.” She wipes at her face. Gods, _is she crying_? “He was… kind,” she finally says, “and he was the only pretty face who never called me a freak to my face.”

Oh, _fuck him to hell and back_ , the poor girl who was what, eighteen at most, and spent her youth either being rejected or surrounded by _future witchers to be_ who, as everyone knows, most times don’t even survive their trials, and was most likely smitten with this Renly, and -

“I had to kill him,” she whispers, sounding _pained_ , “or he wouldn’t have stopped, but people decided that I had turned on him and that it was all my fault, and - well. _That_ is how it went.”

“I suppose no one wanted to hear your side of the story, did they,” he answers.

“You are learning,” she replies, half-smiling, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. “No. They didn’t. And they haven’t. At least it set me straight soon.”

“... How exactly it _set you straight_?”

She shrugs. “Becoming what I am, it isn’t… most people don’t survive it. And I didn’t even choose it, but I couldn’t refuse it either, so - I thought, well. I _did_ want to be a knight, before my father died. Because - I was good with swords. And I figured that if I survived the trials and got _this_ far at least… it could be the next best thing. At least no one would question my right to go around the continent wearing armor. And when I was younger, I - the thing with songs, is that I know they make everything _better_ than it actually is. So I thought that if I got that far, if people wrote songs about me, I wouldn’t… be remembered like I am.” She sighs. “But Bitterbridge set me straight on _that_ account. It was never going to happen, so I just… accepted it, I guess.”

Jaime _can’t fucking believe her_. “Sorry, but then _why_ have you tried to convince me _not_ to when it’s exactly what I’ve been telling you I wanted to do until now?”

The glare she levels at him really, really isn’t effective at all.

“I don’t usually get what I want,” she sighs. “No point in setting myself up for disappointment.”

“You _do_ know you’ve just given me a challenge, _my lady_?” He presses, moving closer to her, so that their shoulders are touching.

She lets herself smile again, ever so slightly.

“Will you accept it?”

He lets himself grin _fully_ , not bothering to hide that he actually is excited for it.

“Gladly,” he says. “And see if within two months people won’t give us a room.”

“I’m… looking forward to it, then,” she says, not moving away.

Good.

He can’t wait to prove her wrong.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which Jaime introduces Brienne to the magic of chamomile massages and they get over themselves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OKAY SO part two is edited have at it while I try to plan the rest of the actual plot which is probably going to end up not being a direct follow-up but hey what's linear narrative? Anyway, have some revisiting of episode four except with more porn and less child surprises ~~for now~~ and godspeed. The next chapter is MORE PORN THAN THIS but I've got to edit properly so it's going to be two-three days I think. Have fun *cough* ;)

It’s been six months since Jaime ran into Brienne in that tavern.

If he actually believed in the gods, he’d be thanking them every single day for that stroke of luck, but he doesn’t, so he just - feels _generally thankful_ for it.

It’s not just that he might have followed her out of sensing the opportunity of a lifetime, because it took him exactly half an hour to grasp that this woman is everything but _just_ a convenient way to fame, not that he cared about _that_ \- he only ever wanted to make enough money to live comfortably with songs, he had enough fame when he still introduced himself using his surname.

But -

But the thing is that the moment she let herself drop her guard at least around him, after that fight a week after their first meeting, she turned out being… way more than what he had already grasped.

For one, in six months he has found out that while her sense of humor is abysmal she apparently finds _his own_ hilarious, which… is a novelty, because until now only Tyrion ever did. Also, she _will_ go without eating for a week if it means giving her meager coin to villagers poorer than she is, and she’s actually pretty well-versed when it comes to songs and music - she can’t play instruments or anything but she has an immense knowledge of ballad repertoire, _almost_ as good as his, but then again… she _did_ say she wanted to be in songs, didn’t she.

Also, she _pretends_ she doesn’t care for her status as a _lady_ witcher, but Jaime had recognized that she had been a woman from _the embroidered flowers on her cloak_ , and he can see that whenever she buys a dagger or weapon she always chooses one that’s… not _blunt_ , most of the time, but… well-crafted, maybe even decorated with flowers on the handle and such things, and sometimes she _does_ look at hair ribbons in markets, even if she never buys any.

Also, she _does_ actually listen to him when he speaks, which… is a novelty, because again, only Tyrion ever used to do that, and when he ended up telling her _more_ about his shitty family she had shrugged and said she perfectly understood why he left, which… no one really has understood, until now.

It had taken Jaime a week to finish the _first_ song that had been wanting to be written since the moment she told him that Bitterbridge had been a gross misunderstanding - of course, he didn’t mention _that_ , not so early in their tentative association. He had kept himself less personal, embellishing a bit one of those hunts she took on in the first few days, where she refused payment because it was obvious the farmers who hired her barely had any money to feed their five children - he had made sure to make it sound like the fight had gone on for longer than it actually had, then dedicated an entire stanza to discussing her kindness and sense of justice and fairness, and if the refrain hammered on how much she’s a friend of humanity and she should be paid her just dues, well, his name used to be _Lannister_ , he knows the value of money, thank you very much, and after a week sleeping on the ground and being turned away from inns he couldn’t even begin to imagine how she had done it for _months_ and taken it with a shrug.

So, he had worked on it for the better part of said week because he wanted it to be _good_ , and then he played it for her while they camped on the outside for the umpteenth time, figuring that he wouldn’t play it to a larger audience if she didn’t want it, and _she broke down in tears_ after trying to argue that it hadn’t taken her two days to finish that particular fight and he had reminded her that _songs are embellished_ , and then she started crying and told him that it was the nicest thing anyone had ever done for her.

Jaime had taken the compliment and started playing it in the villages where she took contracts and lo and behold, he _was_ right - _Toss a Coin to the Lady Witcher_ is entirely more successful than _any_ of the horribly sad songs he wrote to try and exorcise Cersei from his mind, and _it actually worked_ , because after the first three times he played it people started getting it and for the first time the innkeeper let them sleep there for the night.

After two months, they actually had enough coin to pay regularly for a room, in between the two of them, because people _did_ toss coins at Brienne

(when she tells him they’re far better than stones he about wants to murder someone _again_ )

and aldermans stopped trying to swindle her as much as before, also because _he_ had started handling the negotiations - Brienne, bless her, is too kind for haggling the way she should, and _he_ still grew up with his damned father, he knows how to make sure he gets paid -, which meant that at some point she could actually afford hot baths brought up to their room after coming back from a hunt.

It had taken Jaime until month five to tentatively suggest that if she didn’t want to wash monster guts from her hair it wouldn’t be a problem to do it, he _had_ done it for his brother enough times. And it’s not that Brienne _couldn’t_ wash her hair, but that she obviously didn’t relish doing it and honestly, she only used plain soap and while in the end said hair was clean, it still looked dull and badly kept.

“I mean,” he had said, “I wouldn’t mind, and it could look a _lot_ better than that.”

Brienne had looked at him very, very skeptically. “And _how_ so? Just so you know, it used to be dull and brittle even before the trials. At least it’s stronger now.”

Jaime, who other than having spent his entire life (sadly) stuck to his sister and therefore being privy to _all_ the concoctions she used to make her hair even shinier and softer, had ideas.

“How about you let me try it next time?” He had just asked instead. “If it doesn’t work, no great loss.”

She had eventually agreed, and good thing she didn’t seem to suspect that Jaime’s reasons to propose such a thing also had a _lot_ to do with the fact that by then he _knew_ he was attracted to her in ways he had never imagined he could be attracted to anyone that wasn’t Cersei, and actually he hadn’t been attracted to Cersei _this_ way either.

But it’s not his fault if he gets to see her fight every other day and gods but she’s bloody _magnificent_ when she does, if when she uses those two swords at the same time he about feels his blood _boil_ , if she has the loveliest smile he’s ever seen on a woman because she smiles rarely but it reaches her eyes every time she does, if every time he looks into her eyes he thinks he could write twenty song just about how they’re so _gorgeous_ and how that particular shade of blue is exactly the same shade as the clearest sky when the sun is up and no clouds mar it, and it’s not his fault if he wants to punch in the teeth anyone who ever convinced her that no one could _want_ her like that.

And so what if since she obviously doesn’t even _suspect_ it because she wouldn’t even presume that someone might be into her like that he wasn’t certainly offering just out of the goodness of his heart but because he’ll relish any single chance he has to be close to her, and patience if a voice that sounds like Cersei’s whispers in his ear that he’s pathetic. He learned to ignore it, these days.

So, the first time he had used a _nicer_ soap than the plain one Brienne usually has with, an olive one that at least no one would think of using to wash their _coarse_ clothing, and if as he washed blood off that almost white hair he thought it was way softer than _she_ made it sound when she described it, well, he didn’t have to _share_ that with anyone else. _Then_ he had used a slightly rose-scented oil that he’s fairly sure was the last rage in between his sister’s circle of… acolytes, he wouldn’t have called them _friends_ , and then he had brushed it _properly_ instead of just putting it in a towel and let it dry the way she usually does, and _guess what_ , it wasn’t neither dull nor brittle, after.

Brienne had spent _minutes_ staring at it in the mirror before thanking him sounding like she could cry.

“Anytime, wench,” he had said, and she rolled her eyes but didn’t protest - apparently she _really_ hated being called _my lady_ , and when he jokingly asked her if she’d have rather had _wench_ she said _actually yes_ , and - well. It kind of stuck. “I could do it again next time. After all, I only am starting to count the spare money in my bag because I ran into you, it’s the least I could do.”

She hadn’t said no.

So, he’s spent a month washing monster guts off her hair and honestly, he _does_ like it. He might have bought some of those pretty hair ribbons she always looks at that she never ends up getting for herself with the general idea of giving them to her when… it feels like it’s the right occasion, though he knows it sounds like a pretty damn weak excuse.

The thing, he thinks as he sits down on his bed, putting his lute against the wall and feeling with satisfaction the amount of money that went into his purse for his set tonight, is that while _she_ is clueless that he’s very much interested in her, _he_ also… well. Honestly, he’s only ever bedded _his fucking twin sister_ and the more time he spends away from her the more he just _knows_ that he hadn’t had a choice in it _and_ that he only… felt some things because she convinced him that he did. Hells, it took him _weeks_ to realize that his _physical_ reactions to Brienne weren’t a fluke, and the way his stomach turned on itself in the _good_ way when she smiles at him is something he’s only felt for her and not for Cersei, and by the time he knew for sure around month two he just couldn’t fucking believe that he spent twenty years of his life assuming that he was in love with Cersei when _this_ was how it was supposed to feel like. Which means that he’s… completely fucking unequipped to court her or anything because he doesn’t know where the fuck to start from and _she_ is hardly the kind of woman you court the usual way, regardless, so - so he just sticks to the hair washing and he hopes she gets it one day.

Which means he’ll probably get blue balls for the next ten years because Brienne is completely fucking oblivious and while since he started being _sort of famous_ he’s had girls throwing themselves at him he really doesn’t care for bedding strangers. Brienne _did_ tell him she wouldn’t have minded if he did and he said he didn’t want to and he wasn’t even lying, so -

So that’s about the one thing about his life that’s not going exceedingly well right now.

Never mind that it was a conversation he wishes he could erase from his mind because at that point he told her _he_ wouldn’t mind if she brought someone up and she looked at him like he had gone insane, replied that no one wanted to be with a damned _witcher_ and that all of the others usually go to whorehouses, but they’re _men_ , and the two times she found a whorehouse where they also offered male companionship she was turned away and anyway, she wouldn’t want to do it with someone who doesn’t want her for real, which meant she hadn’t even _considered_ it.

Yeah. As if. If only she knew _he_ wants her for real.

That stated... things could be _worse_. He opens the door for the maids who are bringing the usual bath upstairs, if he’s not wrong Brienne shouldn’t be too late and in case she can use that freaky magic sign thing to re-heat the water, so it shouldn’t be a problem if it goes cold, and meanwhile he _could_ start on that ballad he had wanted to craft about Bitterbridge, because it’s time someone sets that record straight.

He’s been scribbling in his notebook for a short while when the door opens.

“... Did you _drown_ in selkiemore guts or _what_ ,” he says, immediately putting the book away as Brienne kicks the door closed and looks down in disgust at her armor, which is, in fact, _covered_ in said guts.

“It’s easier to kill them from the inside,” she shrugs, taking it off and dumping it in a corner where Jaime had already put a towel knowing that she hates to leave blood on the floor of their rooms. “Shit, it’s going to take me hours to wash it off.”

“Just get in the bath, wench. I’ll give it a scrub before it sticks too much.”

“... You don’t have to -”

“I know, and I don’t mind. I hope they haven’t tried to swindle you out of coin.”

“I went to the alderman before coming here,” she replies, “ _no_.”

“Good,” Jaime says, and cleans off the worst of the guts on the armor before he leaves it on a cleaner towel and goes to find his usual soap and oils. She has some wounds on her collarbone, new, now that he notices, but she doesn’t look _too_ banged up, except that the moment he tells her to lean down so he can start washing her scalp he realizes that she’s fucking _tense_.

“Wench, your shoulders are like, _rock_. I mean, more than usual. Care to share with the class?”

She shrugs again. “I made that monster _swallow_ me,” she says. “It’s kind of cramped inside a selkiemore stomach.”

Jaime thinks about that chamomile oil he just bought this morning, which was supposed, according to the chemist, to do _wonders_ to keep his hands in good shape and the skin not too dry.

“Are you sure you don’t want a massage, later?” He asks, lathering her hair in soap, feeling how _soft_ it is under his fingertips.

“A _what_?”

“A _massage_ , wench. To make you feel more relaxed and give those poor shoulders of yours a moment of respite. What, no such thing where you come from?”

“Not really,” she says, shrugging. “I guess it can’t hurt.”

“You _really_ have trust in my skills,” he huffs before lathering her hair in another round of soap because these guts _really_ are sticking to the roots while she heats the water _again_.

It takes him a while, but _finally_ her hair is clean and he lets her get out of the tub, moving back.

“I imagine I should lie down on the bed?” She asks, tentatively.

“I need access to your shoulders, so… yes?” He asks, not turning towards her - she _is_ not exactly too forward about him seeing her naked, for reasons he can only imagine, and so he never looks when she gets out of the tub. When she clears her throat, she’s lying down on her bed, a towel wrapped around her waist reaching the middle of her long, _long_ legs, hair pulled back so it doesn’t touch her shoulders. Thoughtful.

“Right,” he says, getting the oil and pouring some of it on his palms, “just - try to relax. I mean, you _could_ break my hand if you didn’t like it.”

“I’d just tell you not to,” she mutters. “I don’t break hands unnecessarily.”

He takes in a deep breath, moving with his knees around her waist, trying to _not_ think about those long, _gorgeous_ legs stretching behind him, and starts massaging her shoulders very, _very_ slowly.

It takes him a while, because she’s a fucking living knot, that’s what she is, and he has no idea of how she actually didn’t scream out in pain until now, but at some point he _does_ manage to get her muscles to relax, and he doesn’t miss that she breathes in sharply but doesn’t tell him to stop, and so he pours some more and moves over her back, his fingers brushing over more scars than he’d like to see, but maybe he thinks he _likes_ seeing them on her because they mean she has survived until this point, hasn’t she, and the more he goes on, _slowly_ , the more he feels that she’s not holding herself tight like a damned livewire anymore, and he only stops when he reaches the small of her back, and gods he _wants_ to lean down and kiss her shoulders and her spine but he won’t, he knows she’s not interested and that’s it.

“So,” he says, “see my point?”

He expects an immediate answer.

When it doesn’t come, he looks down at her, and -

Wait a moment. Her neck is _completely_ flushed, and she’s breathing maybe faster than her usual, and she’s gripping the sheets of the bed _kind_ of maybe too strongly -

Oh.

_Oh, fuck_.

He moves his knees to the other side of the bed, trying to _not_ faint.

“Brienne?” He tries, trying to not sound like he’s about to have a heart attack. “Are - is - I mean, are you -” Shit, _now_ words are failing him?

And fuck, he sees her shoulders become tense again as she slowly moves up to his knees, grabbing a blanket to cover up her frame, her hands suddenly shaking as she holds it up to her chest and looks everywhere but at him.

Her face is scarlet. Her _shoulders_ are a deeper shade of pink. Gods, she’s _blushing all over_ and he thinks he wants to kiss her more for it, but -

“I’m sorry,” she says, miserably, and as she clutches the blanket he can see that her small breasts look pretty damn stiff under that piece of cloth.

_Gods_ , was she -

“For what?” He says, trying to not sound like he’s about to faint. “I mean, _that_ can happen. It’s normal, if you… like the touch. But really, it’s _fine_ , no need to -”

“No one ever touched me like _that_ ,” she blurts, still not looking at him, and he tries to not tell her that _it’s a damned pity_ , “and I know you wouldn’t mind, I can _feel_ that you don’t, and you’re even too kind for offering, but - you’re doing even too much, no one should -”

“No one should _what_ , be decent to you? Come on, I don’t do anything I _don’t_ want and I think you know that.”

“Then it’s _worse_ ,” she half-sobs.

“... wench, honestly, can you _please_ say it straight? I pride myself on getting a hint, but this is rather fucking confusing and I don’t _get_ it. I mean, I get it that you’re embarrassed that turned you on, but really, it’s fine -”

“That’s because,” she spits out, “I _want_ you to touch me like _that_ and there is no bloody way you actually would _want_ me in the same way and you would deserve better anyway, and I shouldn’t let myself suffer knowing you will never -”

_I want you to touch me like that_ -

Jaime is going to faint.

Or maybe he’s going to stop _her_ from fainting - he gets a grip on himself, puts his hands on her shoulders, stops her mid-sentence.

“ _That_ , my lady,” he says, “is entirely _your_ assumption and a completely wrong one, for that matter.”

She goes silent at once, her eyes meeting his.

“Jaime, I cannot take any japing from _you_ , please -”

“You say you can smell if I’m lying, right?”

“I can -”

“Very well, wench. Then I dare you to look at me in the eyes and tell me I’m a liar when I say that I’ve been _into you_ since the moment I saw you fight for the first time and that didn’t _change_ and actually it got worse since I’ve known you and there is _nothing_ that I would like to do right now more than _finishing_ that massage and getting to touch those magnificent legs of yours before making sure that if you’re turned on you get as many orgasms out of it as you can possibly handle, and if you would let me kiss you at some point that would be _very_ much appreciated. Come on, tell me I was lying.” He lets himself smile. “Because I _know_ I’m not.”

He stares back at her, not breaking eye contact, but he doesn’t really feel any need to because he _wants_ her to see it, and then she goes from guarded to disbelieving, shaking her head.

“You - you’re not lying.”

“Not at all,” he confirms. “And as you noticed, I do _not_ bed whoever I notice because I don’t care for… that. But I’ve been wanting you for months, so -”

“You _can’t_ ,” she protests.

“And why?”

“I’m - people don’t bed _us_ , not willingly, and I’m even _worse_ than the others because at least most of them are actually _attractive_ men and they can pay for a whore, I’m not -”

“Now,” Jaime says, “never mind that I could want you because you’re _the best person I know_ and that would be enough, but I think you are very, very wrong. Actually, do you mind laying down again _without_ the towel?”

“Jaime -”

“Please, humor me. I need to do something else, and I’m told that _thorough_ massages do wonders for relaxing one’s muscles.”

She nods, laying back down tentatively, and she throws the towel on the ground and the moment Jaime _finally_ sees that whole expanse of long, _long_ legs and all the muscle in her ass, he thinks he will need a lot of self control here.

“So,” he says, grabbing the oil again and starting to rub it slowly along her sides before he reaches her ass, and when he does she moans a bit and he gods he wants her to do it _louder_ , “for one, starting from really the baser instincts here, you have legs of a damned _goddess_ and you don’t want to know how many times I went to sleep thinking about how they’d feel around me.”

“You didn’t,” she protests.

“Oh, I _did_ , and,” he goes on, kneading a bit on her thighs, and gods they’re _long_ and firm and that pale skin with a few more freckles is begging to be kissed, but hopefully _later_ , “some of us who have been good at sword fighting can appreciate some fine muscle. I mean, again, not that I haven’t imagined your _arms_ around me, too. I’m an equal opportunities kind of guy. That, though,” he goes on, wiping his hands on the sheet and then moving back up to her shoulders, undoing the bun holding up her hair, “would be ignoring that you have the most beautiful hair, whatever you think of it, and a mouth that begs to be kissed, and that’s without mentioning your frankly _astonishing_ eyes, and I thought you would have understood that I had a _problem_ with them from the fact that I always spend half a stanza trying to describe their color in each damned song about _you_ I wrote, and if you think that _anyone_ writes thirty songs about _one_ person just out of business reasons, you’re sorely wrong.”

“Jaime -” She sounds like she’s about to cry.

Not in the _bad_ way, though.

“Now,” he says, “I know that you have a magnet for arses, and that no one has ever kissed you proper unless you failed to mention that to me, so if when you turn on your back you actually _want to_ kiss me, I will be delighted to kiss you as proper as I can manage and whatever else her ladyship - pardon, the wench desires. If not I can take a no for an answer, but it would be rather stupid if we both wanted each other and did not act on it now, wouldn’t it?”

He moves back so that she can actually move, and he has to stop himself from gasping in awe when she does - gods, her breasts _are_ stiff and the hair on her crotch is as pale blonde-white as her hair’s, and she’s looking at him with eyes that seem a bit darker, pupils dilated, and -

She kneels, moves closer.

“You mean that,” she whispers.

“You _know_ I do,” he replies, dead serious, and then her mouth is on his, almost tentative, and her lips are warm and soft and plush under his own and _oh fuck this_ he can’t hold back anymore and so he moves his hands to her hair and deepens the kiss, getting her to part her lips, and then -

Then it’s like she’s burning inside out - she kisses him _savagely_ , her hands grasping his hair and pulling him in like she’s starved for it and Jaime immediately kisses her back, and maybe he’s delighted when she actually takes control of it, her fingers framing his face strongly but delicately, and he moans into her mouth once, twice, and a moment later he’s tumbled on his back and gods he’s still clothed and she’s not and he really needs to be out of his damned breeches and shirt _now_ -

Then she moves back at once, as if she’s been burned.

“I’m sorry,” she starts again, “I _knew_ I was wrong -”

“Did you see me objecting?” Jaime interrupts her before she can get strange ideas.

“But -” She shakes her head. “This is not how it’s supposed to go.”

“I say it goes however we want,” he says, “and honestly? _This_ is how I always imagined you would be with me.”

“... Like _this_?”

“I always quite liked the thought of _you_ ravishing me, _my lady_ ,” he says, and now she’s not correcting him. “Now, if you would come up higher, I think I know something you might like.”

She swallows, doing it, kneeling right over his face, and Jaime doesn’t waste a goddamned second before he buries his head in the middle of her thighs, grasping at them with both hands, feeling the warm muscle he just massaged before under his fingertips again, and maybe another time he will ask her to just make him _feel_ them, but now he’s more interested in kissing the soft, warm flesh around her cunt - he takes his time, going slow at first, nipping a bit here and there, licking his way towards the center, and it’s not long before her hands go tentatively to his hair, _gently_ , and it just makes him harder, _fuck_ he needs to get a grip or he’ll come in his damned breeches. He takes his time until he hears her moan, and _then_ he sucks on her clit proper, shivering as he feels how fucking _wet_ she is right now, and then he goes a bit _faster_ and she screams his name, her thighs clenching around his head a tiny bit and he shouldn’t be so aroused by the fact that she _could_ probably snap his neck right now if she wanted to.

But he knows she _wouldn’t_ , and so he keeps on eating her out until he can feel that she’s close because she’s definitely forgotten to be quiet and she’s become more tens and her hands are grasping at his hair and then she moans _louder_ and she’s clenching _down_ on him and he swallows down all of that sweet, _sweet_ drink coming out of her cunt, moaning when she cards her fingers through his hair tentatively, and he doesn’t move until she’s done and he’s licked her clean, and when he meets her eyes she looks _dazed_ , like she can’t believe it just happened, and so what if he grins a tiny bit, winking at her?

“Still doubting that I cannot wait for you to fuck me stupid?” He asks, and a moment later her hands are on his red chemise, undoing it shakily at first but with more surety after, and then she’s taken his breeches and smallclothes off, and she’s looking down at him as if he’s the most beautiful thing she’s ever seen and considering that Cersei used to look at him the way she looked at _herself_ in the mirror, it’s… a very welcome change. He makes a show of lying on the mattress, winking at her and saying he’s only waiting for her, and he kind of expects her to just sink on him, but -

But _no_ , she leans down to kiss him softly, mouth first, cheeks after, eyelids after, and then she’s making his way down to his neck and the burn scar he got from Aerys’s flames once on his shoulder, and then downwards and downwards, her hands touching him all over, and gods she’s _scenting_ him and it’s hotter than it has any right to.

And since he can’t fucking _keep his mouth shut_ , he has to ask.

“How do I smell like?”

She half-laughs. “Arousal,” she says, and gods she’s still blushing, “not that I couldn’t _see_ it.”

“And do you plan to do _anything_ about it?”

“Actually, _yes_ ,” she says, and then she _does_ sink down on him, and gods she’s so wet he slides in without a problem, but she does it slow, and rolls her hips even slower until she finds a good rhythm and then she about screams at the third time he thrusts into her as he follows her motions.

“Good,” he moans, “ _please_ do it again -”

And she _does_ but throughout the whole thing she takes her time, and after a bit she reaches up behind him and moves her arms around him, holding him up so easily, and _gods_ he needs to ask her to pin him down the next time they do this because she _could_ and he wants it enough that he _almost_ comes just thinking about it, but he tries to hold on for a while longer, not wanting this to end too soon, and _gods_ she’s everything he had imagined her to be and _more_ , and she keeps on riding him picking up the pace and moaning his name so, so sweetly, and he only does let go when she’s clenching around him _again_ that hard as his hands touch her breasts and she moans into it again and _again_ , and she doesn’t stop riding him until he’s completely spent and her legs are covered in come and the sheets have some blood on them, and then she pulls off him and drops to his side, tentatively touching his shoulder as she smiles at him.

He hooks his ankle around hers and then her arms are around him, and gods she’s so _strong_ but also so goddamned gentle, he can’t handle it. Her fingers find his hair again as his own grasp at the small of her back and her heart is beating entirely too fast for her own standards and Jaime wants to _burst_.

“So,” he whispers, “do you think you might want to go for another round in a bit? That was nowhere near the beginning of what I want you to do to me.”

She smiles back, tentatively, her hands framing his face.

“What if - it’s not the beginning of what I thought I would do to you, if I could?”

“I think,” he says, “that we should stay in tomorrow. We _will_ go to sleep very late.”

“For once we _could_ ,” she replies, and then she’s kissing him again, slowly, like she can’t believe it’s happening, and that just won’t do, but it’s quite all right.

He has all the time in the world to make sure she gets it.

And he thinks he _could_ write a few ballads about it just for the two of them, come tomorrow.

Oh, yes, he thinks as he drags her on top of him again, his hand finding her cunt, he _will_ do just that.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which they get inventive with silken hair ribbons and There Are Declarations.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SOOO I finished editing chapter three while I'm midway through the first witcher book and I figured hey what's a better thing to do on april's fools than NOT trolling and throwing porn upon the world? So here we go have some... more 5k of completely plotless porn except for the one thing at the end which had to happen before I went on with this. Have fun and heed the tags ;)
> 
> Also: this is all I had previously written, I'm currently reworking on two canon things from the show for parts four and five but tldr I'm also reading that exact stuff in the book right now so it'll probably be a few days until I finish it and I see if it gives me ideas because especially one reaaally needs some reworking, but anyway see you soon with more of whatever this fic is /o\ have fun!!

It takes Jaime another couple of weeks after they start fucking to give her the frankly ridiculous amounts of ribbons he had bought in the last few months on the road, as in, _each single one that he had seen her eyeing and not buying_ , which meant that at that point he had a small bag filled _only_ with hair ribbons, and honestly, it had started feeling ridiculous, and considering that now not only they’re bedding each other, and _regularly_ , but Brienne is also coming around to the fact that to _him_ this is no just-passing-the-time fuck or scratching-an-itch fuck… well, it’s just stupid that he’d keep them, especially when he’s sure she wouldn’t take them as a joke.

Also, he’s pretty sure he convinced her that to _him_ , this is no joke at all, and on top of that he’s been entirely delighted to find out that at least when it concerns _her_ , the only rumor he heard before concerning witchers that has been proven true is that when they get going in bed they _really_ can hold their own for a damned long time, and no one was more delighted than Jaime was to find out she could go on for fucking _hours_ without getting tired. At least now she stopped apologizing for wearing him out, _as if she could_ or as if he wouldn’t want her to. So… it really is ridiculous that he hasn’t just come clean about the damned ribbons yet.

Which is why he decides to do it one evening when they’re just passing through a village that had no contracts for her but a nicely sized inn for _him_ \- she’s not tired and he’s had a good set and for once they don’t have to deal with washing blood off her leathers before moving on to more pleasurable activities.

“So,” he tells her, “what if I have… er, not _something_ for you but a lot of something _s_ , rather?”

“... Something _s_?” She asks. “You know you don’t need to buy me anything, right?”

“See, here I am trying to be _proper_ and all and that’s what I get in return?”

“You don’t even know what _proper_ means,” she snorts.

“I _do_ ,” he protests, “I just choose not to be. _Anyway_ , to make things short and to save myself the most likely embarrassment -”

“Why would you be _embarrassed_?”

He shrugs, sitting on the bed next to her and dumping the bag in her lap. “Because I was buying _these_ long before I thought there was a chance in the seven hells you might be interested in me,” he says, and then she opens it and her eyes go even wider than usual, her lips parted in a gasp - her hands tremble as she reaches down and grasps one of the ribbons on top - a pretty, silky azure thing with a bit of lace all along its sides.

“How did you know -” She starts, not even trying to deny that she _did_ want them and never bought any.

“I don’t know,” he says, “maybe I _did_ spend months staring at you because I was hopelessly pining and I noticed because you’re nowhere near as subtle as you think you are? And it’s not like there’s anything wrong with it.”

She scoffs. “If you didn’t notice -”

“Oh, let me guess, your chosen profession doesn’t let anyone in it have _luxuries_ or nice things and _you_ weren’t allowed to like _feminine_ stuff even before you got recruited for it, says the woman who goes around with a cloak that has _embroidered flowers_ on the hems. I also would like to state for the umpteenth time that I can’t care less if you don’t look like a stereotypical fair maiden from the songs and that if you wanted to slay monsters in pink silken dresses I wouldn’t judge you for it.”

She _does_ laugh for real at that. “That would be the best way to get killed _and_ ruin the pink silken dress,” she says, and then bites down on her lip and grabs the ribbon and -

 _Hands it to him_ , turning her back to him.

She doesn’t ask, but she doesn’t need to. He runs his fingers through that soft, shiny hair of hers that _now_ looks like that all the time thanks to _his_ ministrations, delighted to see that she hasn’t cut it in a while, which means that when he carefully braids the ribbon into a plait braid he actually has a _lot_ of hair to do it with, and he kind of wishes they were outside for once because he _could_ have braided a flower or two into it, and gods but this is the _one_ thing he’s not regretting having had to learn because of his sister; at the end of it he’s done a pretty good work, if he can say so himself, and he knows she _does_ like it when she looks at herself in the mirror, the braid long enough to each her neck, with the lace curling around the end of it.

He absolutely forgets about all of the other ribbons when she suddenly turns, kisses him breathless and pushes him against the mattress, and patience if he doesn’t get to touch her hair this time - he likes it tied that way. He likes it _a lot_.

\--

He also likes that she _keeps_ her hair that way. Or at least, she asks him to braid it for her every other day, with the excuse that it’s _comfortable_ and out of her way, but he _does_ see her looking with satisfaction at her reflection when she has the chance, or at least with what resembles satisfaction for _her_.

The other ribbons were never used as Brienne says that she likes _that_ one, but she _does_ bring them with. He knows she keeps them in one of her bags, and he doesn’t ask about them - if she wants some more braiding, he supposes she knows she just has to ask.

Then it happens that one evening not long later they’re stuck in an inn during a _bad_ spring storm that hasn’t stopped for the last two days and apparently _will_ go on for the next two or so the locals said, and he’s had a few drinks downstairs while _she_ hasn’t and he’s trying to goad her into sharing _what else_ she might have thought about doing when bedding each other, as he knows she _does_ think about a lot of options but doesn’t tell unless he drags it out of her with great effort, and since she’s _not_ saying shit, as usual, and he’s the _right_ kind of buzzed when he confesses to her that he’d have _loved_ if she could tie him to the bed once in a while, which is _true_ because he really, _really_ does want it -

Her pupils grow slightly wider when she hears it.

He also knows she _can_ tie a knot or _twenty_. He’s seen enough.

“You’re serious,” she says. “And you’re also not _that_ drunk, are -”

“I’m _absolutely_ serious,” he says, “and I didn’t have that much.”

“Well,” she says, “I, uh, do have… those ribbons. If you don’t tug that much.”

He grins back immediately.

“I _knew_ I bought that many for a reason.”

She rolls her eyes and glares at him a moment longer, but then she goes for the corner of the room where she placed her bags and opens the one where he knows she keeps the ribbons.

He stays very, very still, his throat becoming progressively more dry as she goes through the whole amount and then shows up with a few ones that look a bit sturdier than the one he used on her now unbraided hair - one is dark green velvet, the other is light brown hemp - he had thought it wasn’t very refined when he got it, but now he supposes it _could_ be a good option.

She kicks off her shoes and slips off her breeches, remaining only in her shirt, hair falling over her shoulders, and then she straddles him - he had managed to kick off his boots before, but only left it at that.

“Are you sure?” She asks, tentatively taking his wrist in between her fingers.

“What do you _think_?” He asks, nodding towards his own crotch, and the moment she sees that there’s been a significant dent inside it since she left to look for the ribbons, she just nods and starts tying his wrist to the bed’s frame. It doesn’t take her long, and when she’s done, there’s velvet all around his left wrist and while he can open and close his fingers he can’t really… move it.

“Is that good?” She asks, sounding extremely tentative.

“Yes,” he says at once, holding out the right wrist. She nods, tying it back to the frame as well, and _this_ one doesn’t feel soft at all, and the sensation is _strange_ but he thinks he likes that.

He can’t really move that one, either.

“You _could_ break out of them if you wanted to,” she asks, “right?”

“Maybe,” he agrees, “but I don’t think I _do_ want to.”

She breathes in, nodding, her hands going to his shoulders, leaning down to kiss him as she opens up his shirt, and _gods_ she could just keep him still with the barest pressure and he couldn’t move and _fuck_ but it’s exactly as hot as he had imagined, and when she obviously feels him getting _harder_ against her leg she bites down the question she was most likely about to ask and thankfully, _thankfully_ slips off his breeches, throwing them on the ground along with his smallclothes - now he’s just in his opened shirt and she has her legs around his hips and her eyes look _bluer_ and _fuck_ he thinks he’s not going to last very long, at the first round.

“ _Why_ don’t you want to?” She whispers, her fingers touching his chest for a moment before her right hand grips the back of his neck and the left goes to his hip, keeping him _still_.

Of course she wants to _talk_ about it.

Right when he’s right on the path towards _extremely turned on_.

He breathes in, figuring that there’s no point in circling around it.

“I - I used to do it. With… you know.” He can’t even say her name, distaste rising in his mouth.

Brienne nods.

“I hated it… when _she_ did it. I mean, I thought I liked it because she did and - I thought I couldn’t dislike something that _she_ liked. But that was because - it felt wrong. And she didn’t… care.”

“And what’s different about _this_?” She leans closer, her mouth hovering over his.

“I thought about doing it with you,” he whispers, his neck arching upwards, “and I _liked_ the idea, because I know you - I know you care. And it’s - different.”

“In a good way, I hope.”

“ _Obviously_ ,” he moans when her hand touches his stomach, _right_ above his crotch. “Fuck, you’re - Brienne, _shit_ , you know you have the nicest hands in the continent, don’t you?”

“I don’t,” she says, matter of fact.

“You _do_. Fuck, the way they feel, I - I like that you could do whatever you want with me and I know you won’t do anything I _don’t_ want you to,” he blurts, hoping that it sounded coherent, that he hasn’t said too much, but then Brienne’s grasping the back of his head a bit tighter and she’s leaning down, her fingers tugging on his hair -

“Some people would say that you have no sense of self-preservation,” she says, but now she sounds almost _excited_ , bless her.

“Never said I had much of it,” he agrees, “but all things considered, being _with you_ shows that I do have some, _somewhere_.”

And then she runs her fingers through his hair once, twice, _gently_ , before she leans down to kiss him and he moans shamelessly into her mouth at once, and then her mouth is _all_ over him - cheeks, temples, chin, neck, shoulders, taking her damned sweet time, and by the time she’s mapped his entire chest and ran her tongue over all of the scars he got while in King’s Landing (not as many as hers, _never_ as many as hers) he’s about shivering all over in the good way, blood boiling underneath his skin, and when she takes him in her mouth (and goes, she doesn’t need to breathe as much as a regular human which means she _can_ deep-throat him and take her own sweet time with it) it takes him an embarrassingly short amount of time before he spills inside her mouth and _gods she swallows without even moving_ , and looks maybe a bit smug when she finally lets his cock slide from her lips, her hands grasping his thighs, her teeth lightly, lightly scraping a piece of skin before she kisses her way back up to his mouth.

“I see,” she says, “I should maybe take it slower.”

“Do whatever you want,” he breathes against her lips, “gods _please_ just do it, I’ll stop it if I don’t like it, but -”

“Oh, whatever _I_ want?” She says, and then reaches for one of the camomile oil bottles on the nightstand. Then she coats her fingers in it, rubbing thumb and index together, and then he about screams when she puts them on the crack of his ass.

“Spread your legs,” she asks, sounding suddenly a bit surer of it, and he does at once and _fuck_ , the way she’s opening him up, first teasing and then slowly, _slowly_ , pushes her fingertips inside him is driving him completely mad in all the good ways - she keeps on pouring oil over them every time she pulls them out and they’ll have to restock but _fuck_ he doesn’t care, not when it feels _good_ , and he spreads his legs a bit wider as she pushes in _deeper_ -

And then he about screams as he arches upwards the moment they’re inside him proper, buried inside his ass, and _shit_ that felt better that good, that felt -

Brienne’s fingers slide back and then _forward_ and they hit _the right spot_ again and _fuck_ he’s hard all over again, took less than he had imagined, and when he looks back up into her eyes she seems to be _extremely_ interested in how much he’s about writhing on her fingers, her cheeks slightly red, her mouth slightly parted.

“I see,” she says, doing it _again_ , “that you _do_ like if -”

“ _Please_ keep on doing it,” he blurts, and then moans again when she goes it again and _again_ -

“Could you -” She sounds hoarse now, blushing harder, but gods she’s a _sight_ and he thinks he never wants to stop looking at her, “- come just from… _this_?”

“If you go on like this? _Fuck_ , yes, yes _please_ keep on doing it -”

“No need to beg,” she says, sweetly, but now she’s half-grinning, “but maybe _I_ should decide when that happens?”

Just hearing _say_ that almost makes him go over the edge.

“Gods, _yes_ ,” he moans, “just _go on_ -”

“All right,” she nods, and then starts going faster and _faster_ , her free hand going to his face, holding it still, and gods he’s about to _die_ here, but that’s fine, that’s fine because it’s going to be an extremely good death and the way she’s just not doing it tentatively anymore but _surely_ is going to drive him crazy sooner rather than later, and then Brienne is looking down at him like she _really_ likes what she’s seeing, and she’s leaning down and breathed against the shell of his ear that she wants him to come _now_ and he’s off a moment later, his entire chest spasming in pleasure, and he knows he’s coming all over her stomach and shirt and screaming her name all over but he doesn’t even care if they hear him - she keeps on fucking him with her fingers while he keeps on spilling until he’s spent and he’s breathing in hard and everything around him feels floaty in the best way, and when she kisses him again he about melts into it, and then she’s said something about not being able to hold on anymore and she’s gone on her knees and about shoved her cunt in his face -

And at _that_ he doesn’t even think before he buries his longue inside it, and he works her open and sucks at her cunt until she’s dripping all over his mouth and comes as hard as he had, and so maybe while he licked her clean he had gotten aroused _all over again_ \- it’s not as much as before, but it’s enough for Brienne to ride him slowly and for a long, _long_ time, and by the third time he comes he’s about _dizzy_ with it, and when she decides that it’s been enough and undoes the restraints and pulls him into her arms, he doesn’t protest and curls against her the moment he can, his hands grasping at her back, and he’s just hoping that they do it again very, very soon.

\--

Brienne spends a couple of days looking pensive.

Then she says they should visit a city, next.

Jaime, who knows there’s a lot to be gained in cities, more than their usual inns, immediately agrees to the advice and doesn’t suspect that she had wanted it because she had planned to _gather supplies_ in the type of shop that you cannot find in backwater towns.

That evening, after his set, she clears her throat.

“Uh,” she says, and now she sounds half-unsure again, “from last time, I, uh, gathered that you… do like it, if - if I use my fingers.”

“I thought it was rather obvious,” he says. “And I _did_ have a few rounds with men, back - back in King’s Landing. Which probably helped showing me that I had… well. _Different tastes_ than I thought I had. Yes, I like that. Why?”

“Once I might have gotten paid in books,” she said. “There were a few… raunchy ones, let’s say.”

“Of course you accepted _books_ as payment. And?”

“And, in one of them - oh, fuck it, I might as well just show you,” she says, reaching for something wrapped in soft deer cloth in her bag, and then she throws it his way.

He pulls away the cloth and about fucking faints.

He supposes that in those so-called raunchy books, women actually _did_ fuck their partners… with maybe tools such as the exquisitely carved fake cock in his hands - he thinks it’s polished bone, or so it feels, and it comes with what looks like a thin leather harness, and _of course_ she needed to be in a town to buy it, and -

He pictures Brienne tying him to the bed and fucking him properly with _that_ and he thinks that a rush of blood goes to his face because Brienne is smiling at him a moment later.

“I guess that was a yes?” She asks, tentatively.

“ _Oh,_ it really, _really_ fucking was,” he agrees at once, giving it back to her. “And _please_ tie me up again before you use it.”

“If you ask so nicely,” she replies, and now she doesn’t sound hesitant at all and her mouth doesn’t either when it touches his lips, her tongue running over his teeth for a moment before she bites down on his lower lip and pushes him back on the bed.

“Now,” she says, “how about you stay there and I go get the ties and you let me handle everything?”

“Yes,” he breathes, “ _please_ , I -”

“Patience,” she says, and then she stands up to find the ribbons. He doesn’t move at all and she tuts in approval when she sees he hasn’t, and he lets her take his shoes off before she ties him to the bed again, and then she gets rid of his breeches and underwear once again - for a moment he thinks she’ll just go for it, but she _doesn’t_ \- instead, _first_ she kisses him savagely and jerks him off, her palm wrapped around the head of his cock that had been already smeared with precome, and he comes embarrassingly fast _again_ , but then she smiles and says that it was to get the edge off, and then she grins in a way that really, _really_ suits her before she kisses his wrists and all through his arm, and _then_ all over his chest as she had the first time, and at that point he’s already feeling hazy in the good way -

That is, until she slowly sits on his face again, and _fuck_ she’s wet, he realizes, except that she hasn’t taken her smallclothes off and maybe it should be so damned hot to try and use his tongue on her throuhg the soaked cotton, but he does until she obviously can’t take it anymore and shoves it down her legs and then is back on him again - he makes her come taking his time, since it seems like she’s not in a hurry, and when her sweet, sweet release hits his face he expects her to linger -

But she doesn’t, leaving him to lick at his lips as she leans back and takes the harness in hand.

The fact that the pale white of that bone looks _almost_ the same shade as her hair is most likely contributing to how he feels like he’ll come the moment she touches _his_ cock, and so he takes deep breaths as she reaches for more oil.

“Now,” she says, “that’s for you. But I thought,” she goes on as he spreads his legs, raising them a bit, enough that she has good access, “you could make sure _this_ is also wet while I get you ready?”

He doesn’t say a word before opening his mouth and taking the fake cock in his mouth, dutifully wetting it with his tongue as she hums approvingly, which only makes him want to do it _harder_ , and he _does_ , trying to concentrate on it even if her fingers opening him up still so very slowly and carefully will be his goddamned death, and then her fingers are gone and she’s pulled it back from his lips.

“Good,” she says approvingly, and he about whines at that, way beyond giving a fuck about how embarrassing it might be.

Then she slips it on, locking the harness at the sides and making sure it won’t slip, and _shit_ she’s a sinful sight and he hopes she wants to use it as often as possible as she coats the fake cock in some more oil and then grabs the back of his thighs and lifts them up so effortlessly he could fucking come _just_ from that, too -

When she starts sliding inside him _very_ slowly, he moans again.

And _again_.

“I was wondering,” she says, still keeping his legs lifted up, _fuck_ , “that next time I could use my tongue other than my fingers?”

The way she asks - he didn’t know he had it in her to sound _coy_ , but she can and he’s honestly delighted.

“I wouldn’t - say no,” he manages to blurt as she fucks into him slower, and _slower_ , until she’s buried inside him and she’s _this_ close to find the spot she had found with her fingers, but she stays still for a moment instead. “Gods, it feels _good_ ,” he says.

“Does it?” She asks, moving back, and then experimentally fucking into him, and he groans in pleasure when she _finally_ hits the _right_ place.

“Yeah,” he nods, “gods, _please_ , more -”

“Of course,” she says, picking up a pace, extremely slow, “and you won’t come until I say, will you?”

He shakes his head, then confirms it with words, even if he feels like they’re starting to slip from him.

“Good,” she says, “oh, you’re taking it so well -”

He should probably think about _why_ he feels like he’ll _die_ in all the best ways whenever she says something like that.

Maybe he will _after_ they’re done. For now, he just whines, trying to urge her on, and she does, keeping his hips still as she kisses him again and keeps on fucking into him, picking up the pace, and then faster, and then she’s going steady and keeping it fast enough that he barely has time to breathe but not enough to hurt, and he can’t move and she about _has_ him completely and he doesn’t think sex has gotten any better than this, and at this point he’s entirely beyond words that aren’t her name or _yes_ and _please_ , and then her hands are in his hair and she’s kissing him softly even if she keeps on fucking him ruthlessly and she’s telling him to come when he wants to and he holds on for a bit more but then he feels like his entire body is so coiled he _has_ to unfold, and he comes so hard he’s sure he’ll black out for how fucking _good_ it is, but it doesn’t matter because Brienne’s hands are on his face and he has his legs around her frame and she’s so warm she might burn in the good way, and she’s telling him something that he can’t distinguish but he likes how it sounds, and at that point he just lets himself go -

\- and then he opens his eyes and she has untied his hands and they’re lying on the bed with his back against her chest.

She’s massaging his wrists, his ass feels sore in all the best ways, their sheets are wrecked and when he turns to her he still feels somewhat sluggish and like he can’t fucking stop smiling, and she also looks delighted as she sees that, and then she’s kissing him once, twice, and gods but this is the best afterglow of his entire damned existence and he thinks he’ll let himself enjoy the shit out of it.

“Here you are,” she says, moving back, and her voice is low but _warm_ and he’s halfway sure that his cock comes back to life just because of _that_.

She huffs, but she sounds fairly damn pleased with herself.

“What can I say,” he slurs, “when it comes to you, I can match your appetite, apparently.”

“That means you might not… be done?” She asks, sounding… excited.

“I’m done when _you_ are,” he says, “or… well, or when I’m too exhausted to, I guess. Which I’m not, now.”

“So,” she smiles, slowly, “if I used my tongue on you _now_ -” Her hand has slipped to the crack of his ass, where he’s still halfway sore and slippery with oil and _oh fuck yes_.

“You are absolutely welcome to,” he says, kissing her rough palm, and he _can_ hear her moan at that, and -

“You are - I don’t even know anymore,” she says, but she sounds _fond_ , and he _has_ to try and rise up to the challenge.

“What,” he says, “I’m that good?”

“Of course you’re _that_ good,” she says, and if he shudders as he hears it, _well_ , he can’t be blamed now, and he knows she notices, “not counting the fact that before you showed up I don’t think a single man on this earth would have wanted me to _touch_ their arm through their clothing, never mind -”

“Told you once,” he grins back, “there are no men like me, and too bad for the others because someone who would pass having your tongue _anywhere_ on them is a right idiot. Now, will you fuck me again, _my lady_ , or do I have to threaten you to put all of this in a song to get you to do it?”

“.. You wouldn’t,” she says as she moves behind him after another kiss as he turns on his stomach and spreads her legs.

“And why not? A song about how the honorable blue knight of Tarth is also extremely proficient in bed and could drive a man insane with just a mere touch of her fingers would _absolutely_ be a hit in certain establishments, and if you want me to write an ode about how sweet your cunt tastes _please_ be sure I would in a heartbeat -”

“I think,” she says, “that you’re the only man I want to appreciate the taste of my cunt, and if you ever write those songs I’m _not_ using that - _that_ on you anymore.”

“You _wouldn’t_ ,” he exclaims.

“Well, keep your opinion about how good a fuck I am to yourself, how about _that_?” She says, and then she leans down and uses her tongue on him and he about screams _louder_ the moment she licks around the rim of his entrance, and when she plunges it inside a while later he’s so beside himself that he comes _again_ , not as much, not as fast, but he still does, against the already wrecked sheets, and when she moves back and holds him again she looks extremely pleased with herself.

He’s also completely beside himself with how _good_ he feels, and he feels like he’s floating on clouds as he looks up at her, reaches up with the hand that doesn’t have hemp red signs around the wrist -

“Hey,” he says, “you know - you know I wouldn’t _really_ do that if you hated it. It’s just, sometimes it’s the only way I know to convey how much exactly I -”

“You…?” She prompts when he doesn’t answer.

“Brienne, the entire damned continent knows I love you by now, the other songs aren’t exactly skirting around it.”

She stares down at him, mouth halfway parted, her eyes going wider, and then her forehead falls against his and she looks like she might cry -

“You idiot, I think I’ve been in love with you since you punched that asshole six days after we met,” she admits, quietly, softly, and -

And he _has_ to kiss her _again_ at that point, and _again_ as she takes control of it, and gods he hadn’t thought she’d say it back, and the next song he writes will be definitely about how saying witchers have no feelings is just horseshit for sure.

But for now he thinks he’ll just let her kiss him some more.


End file.
